


When all we have is silence

by Sherlocked4Life



Series: After the fall (comes winter) [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath, Angst, Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock Series 3 Spoilers, Unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 02:15:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3364004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlocked4Life/pseuds/Sherlocked4Life
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Lestrade sat at his desk, despondent; a man barely holding on, crushed beneath the blame he felt he rightly deserved. Mycroft had known this was how he’d find him that evening, not hours after the news of Sherlock’s fall, but it was no less difficult seeing it in person.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>This is the 24 hours after Sherlock's fall from Mycroft's perspective, where he finds himself in the position of comforting Lestrade and leaving more affected than he had anticipated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When all we have is silence

Mycroft bit the inside of his cheek in frustration, an uncharacteristic outward expression of his internal struggle. This was… inconvenient. A lifetime of mind over matter dissolving around him as his brain rebelliously released an irresistible cocktail of chemicals into his system: adrenaline, cortisol, dopamine, serotonin.

So base. So mundane. So excruciatingly distracting!

Mycroft fidgeted again in the back seat of his town car. The third time in so many minutes and this time there was no mistaking the almost imperceptible eye twitch from Anthea seated to his right. It was a credit to her training that her focus never left her Blackberry, but his discomfort was clearly not going unnoticed. Damn.

How had this happened? He was so careful, so guarded. He had long since learned to go cold to the world. Except for where Sherlock was concerned of course, and maybe that was where he had miscalculated. It had crept up on him so slowly he hadn’t even thought twice about letting Gregory into his life. The man had proven invaluable in Sherlock’s recovery; it had been a forgone conclusion to integrate him into his inner circle, though his recent change to thinking of him using his given name was something he’d have to remedy.

It didn’t matter how it happened, only that he had miscalculated and he was now paying the price. He had realized his error too late, not 20 minutes earlier, upon receiving _The Text_ , as he had so melodramatically decided to reference it internally. If he was subject to the tediousness of human drama, why not go all in, after all. 

DI Lestrade: _thanks for last night_

It was nothing, practically a formality, but as he read the words he could feel his face change. The small muscles at his temples’ hairline tightened, lifting the corners of his eyes, and the edges of his lips followed with a minute change to the tension where jaw meets neck. The warmth that spread almost imperceptibly out from the center of his chest sharpened, twisted, and fell heavily into his stomach as the reality crashed home. 

Unlike his brother, he recognized its symptoms all too well. There is nothing in the world so powerful and so destructive. Really, it was a miracle he had staved it off for so long, considering how closely he had watched the man, though only from afar. Gre… DI Lestrade was practically family considering the grief he had put himself through on Sherlock’s behalf, well before John took on the brunt of that task. It had been such a relief when Lestrade had given Sherlock the outlet that would eventually lead to his near-sobriety, and the love Lestrade had for his brother was so much like his own.

So, it seemed perfectly natural that after Sherlock’s ‘death’ he should be the one to go to Gregory...

LESTRADE!

Mycroft’s upper arm twitched reflexively with the sudden urge to lash out at the unsuspecting seatback in front of him. Anthea was on full alert now, not that anyone but Mycroft would have noticed the change. It was good to have confirmation of just how good his PA was at her job, but it meant that there was no way for them to mutually look the other way at this point. 

“My apologies.” Mycroft released a steadying breath, focusing on the seat between them as he spoke and then refocusing his gaze out the window.

He owed her no explanation; this was sufficient for her to understand she could stand down. He could feel her eyes trained on him now, but he had no intention of bringing her into the loop of this emotional Gordian Knot he was determined to cleave on his own. She would assume this was residual strain from orchestrating Project Lazarus and he would not correct her.

He traced the outline of his mobile phone in his left trouser pocket as he pondered the evening…

____________________

_Lestrade sat at his desk, despondent; a man barely holding on, crushed beneath the blame he felt he rightly deserved. Mycroft had known this was how he’d find him that evening, not hours after the news of Sherlock’s fall, but it was no less difficult seeing it in person._

_He watched Lestrade from across the room through the glass of his office windows. The floor was nearly empty and the lights were dimmed slightly for the late hour. His eyes lingered on the newly vacated desk of the inspector’s would-be assassin. After John’s sniper, he had been the next to be removed as a future threat, never even making it to the car park below on his final trip home from work._

_This, however, had done nothing for the niggling feeling that Gregory… yes, at this point he might as well admit it was “Gregory”… was still in danger._

_All of Moriarty’s targets, though spared the bullets, had been brutalized by the events of the day. He had already ensured that Mrs. Hudson had been escorted into her sister’s care and two full undercover details placed in the area. The workmen from her building were still technically at large; and though that was by design, one couldn’t be too careful._

_John, wonderfully predictable John, had refused to leave St. Bart’s, still now sitting vigil on the floor in the hall outside the morgue where Sherlock’s body double waited for autopsy. Sherlock had been out of the building and on his way to Mycroft’s most secure bolthole before John had even made it to his feet again to follow the gurney inside. Although the illusion would surely have held given John’s rattled mental state, Ms. Hooper had convinced him not to view the body. He had not, however, been convinced to seek medical attention himself, and collapsed where he stood against the wall, looking at the closed doors to the morgue with glassy, unseeing eyes. Ms. Hooper had stayed with him for some time, but it was enough that she (and his undercover security detail) were in the vicinity should they be needed._

_Which left the shell of a man before him; the final target with no one left to protect him from himself. His cheating wife had finally left him, adding insult to injury after sticking by her throughout her affair, and his only remaining family, the Yard, had turned on him and forced him to betray a friend he now thought to be dead by his actions. He certainly knew that a full inquiry was now pending and he would be suspended without pay, possibly dropped back to sergeant if allowed to stay on at all._

_Somehow Mycroft doubted that Gregory was giving any thoughts at the moment to his career. This was a man in mourning for a loss greater than just his friend; he was mourning the perceived loss of his own integrity, loyalty, and worthiness of such a friendship. He needed more than a protective detail to save him from this downward spiral — he needed a friend._

_And to this end Mycroft found himself gazing at Gregory from the shadows, leaning on his elbows with his hands roughly clasped in his now disheveled silvering hair. Steeling himself, Mycroft made his way through the maze of desks and rapped twice on the half-open office door with the handle of his umbrella before stepping inside. Gregory’s head lifted slowly to meet the eyes of whoever had intruded on this bout of self-loathing, and when they did, he froze._

_Shock. Terror. Remorse. Resignation to a fate he saw as sealed._

_Mycroft saw it all in that instant and was suddenly struck by his own arrogance. Gregory needed a friend, but only now did Mycroft realize that he had unthinkingly ascribed that title to himself despite all evidence to the contrary. He had almost grown to believe the lie, but although Mycroft knew every detail of Gregory’s life, following the story almost daily as it progressed, he had only met the man in person a handful of times over the years of their acquaintance. And in those times never shared more than his name and familial relationship to Sherlock with the man, along with the thinly veiled threat of repercussions should his brother be harmed either through The Work that Gregory graciously offered or by his own chemical experimentation._

_Gregory clearly thought Mycroft was there to make good on his threat, to take out his anger at the loss of his brother on the man who was, in his mind, to blame. Unacceptable. If Mycroft could not fill the role of friend, he would at least ensure that he dispelled that ludicrous idea once and for all._

_“This was not your fault, Inspector, and you should not blame yourself. I certainly do not blame you.”_

_Confusion. Disbelief. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt._

_Gregory’s head settled back down between his hands. “Then why are you here?” It came out horse from hours spent determinedly holding back the tears he felt no right to shed._

_“I…” uncertainty gripped him for a fleeting moment, doubt that this would work now that the underlying assumption about their relationship to one another was no longer valid. Taking a measured breath, he forged on with the plan, as it was the only thing that seemed appropriate given he was supposed to be preparing to bury his brother. “I find myself in need of a drink and someone to accompany me to that end.”_

_Gregory looked up again, mouth forming the beginning of a question that lingered unvoiced. Bemused silenced enveloped the room, wrapping itself around Mycroft’s lungs until he could hardly breath._

_“Please.”_

_Gregory seemed incapable of getting a verbal response to cut through the fog of confusion that had descended with that request. Instead he shrugged and stumbled to his feet in search of jacket and keys. The trip down the elevator and into the black, unmarked car was done in silence._

_The ride was mercifully short, and as Gregory followed Mycroft out of the car he shot him a sideways glance. This was not the Diogenes, nor another elite establishment, as he had clearly expected. This was Gregory’s local haunt and favorite pub, where he had celebrated his promotion to Detective Inspector and mourned his failed marriage. This was exactly where he needed to be tonight, and Mycroft knew it (as he knew so many things that Gregory had never told him)._

_Mycroft led the way past Greg’s usual stool at the bar, to a booth at the back that had been held open for them at his request, or more specifically the request of his PA. Tonight required privacy, and he had ensured Gregory would be as comfortable as possible for whatever emotional outpouring might occur. This was not Mycroft’s milieu, but he had studied the protocols and he was prepared to see this through._

_“Can I offer you a pint?” Mycroft asked as they settled in to either side of the table._

_Greg smirked to himself before meeting Mycroft’s gaze, “Not sure that’ll be enough tonight.”_

_“Indeed,” and on cue a decanter of Mycroft’s preferred scotch arrived with two tumblers. Greg’s expression said he could tell that these items were generally not available in this particular establishment, but he accepted the drink without question._

_“Not really the kind of drink you get sloshed on…” though the amount of scotch that disappeared from the glass after his first drink said otherwise. Mycroft resisted the quirked eyebrow that threatened his schooled expression of friendly compassion and took a slightly more measured sip from his own glass._

_As the night progressed, and the bottle slowly (though not that slowly) drained, they may as well have been in the Diogenes. Mycroft refilled their glasses whenever Gregory threatened to find the bottom of his, but the silence between them remained. Was there anything to say that two grown men determined to eschew emotional expression could say in this moment?_

_It appeared not, so Mycroft simply observed the man across from him. Gregory was clearly hoping the intoxicant would help him avoid the thoughts that continued to invade, but as the night progressed the battle was not progressing in his favor. He studied his glass in search of the answers that never come from such a source, but so many seek them there regardless, and Mycroft waited._

_“This isn’t how it’s supposed to end.” Gregory’s speech was slurred, but his voice cut clearly through the noise of the pub, booming to Mycroft’s ears after more than an hour of relentless silence._

_“Things rarely end according to expectation, Inspector.”_

_“No.” Gregory’s protest sounded feeble, but he pushed forward. “It can’t end like this. It doesn’t make any goddamn sense!” The curse was punctuated by the glass returning to the tabletop with more force than was strictly necessary._

_“When it pertains to matters surrounding my brother, does it ever really?”_

_“Yes! I mean, no, not to me or any of the other people Sherlock deemed idiots.” Then, as Gregory lifted his glass for another larger than socially acceptable pull from his glass he mumbled, “…rightfully so, it would seem.”_

_“Now, Inspector…” but Mycroft’s mildly condescending protest was stopped dead by the piercing glare that locked onto him from over the rim of the glass. It was the first eye contact they had made since they had left Gregory’s office and the force was magnetic and broke the seal containing the emotional torrent within._

_“I should have seen it! I should have known! YOU should have known! How could this even happen?!” The sheer volume of his outburst brought the majority of the pub to a shocked standstill, but it was the anguish on Gregory’s face that struck Mycroft dumb in that moment. How much he wanted to reach across the table and hold this man to keep him from shaking apart before his very eyes._

_Although Mycroft had consumed quite a deal less of the scotch than Gregory, it was enough to allow that thought to betray him into action. Before he could stop himself he reached for Gregory’s face with one hand, thinking to soothe away some of the hurt that he couldn’t bare to see in those eyes. His hand only made it halfway to its destination before the motion of it broke the trance and Gregory was snapped back into action. Looking away, he reached for his glass only to collide with it forcefully enough that it toppled over, spilling the remaining contents across the table and over the edge onto Mycroft’s tailored trousers._

_“Shite,” he mumbled and lurched from his seat. “I ‘ave t’ go.”_

_Mycroft stood and brushed at the wet spot on his thigh absently. He was slightly less secure in his balance than he would generally have liked but nowhere near the level Gregory was exhibiting. Gregory was now holding onto the side of the table to keep himself upright, though the degree of listing even with this aid did not speak well for the success of his retreat._

_“Allow me to call my car, I will take you home if that is where you would prefer to be, though you shouldn’t be alone.” The final part had slipped out quite against his better judgment, but Gregory luckily appeared to be in no state to notice the implied offer._

_“I’ll walk.” Without a glance back Gregory weaved his way to the door, making contact with most of the stools and patrons on the way, but surprisingly avoiding becoming intimately acquainted with the floor._

_Mycroft followed, carefully keeping a slow enough pace to avoid showing the most obvious signs of his inebriation. As he emerged into the cool, dark night he scanned the street. Gregory had not made it far. Grasping the edge of the brick building two doors down, he was doubled over. Mycroft moved up beside him and was gripped by the need to touch him again. This time he did, placing the flat of one hand between Gregory’s shoulder blades, the other holding onto the arm not clutching the wall to counterbalance as Gregory continued to wretch._

_“I’m sorry.” Gregory’s voice was barely a whisper._

_“Perfectly understandable, given the rate of intake this evening. Better this than succumbing to alcohol poisoning in your sleep.” Mycroft had even anticipated this as a likely scenario; his words practically word-for-word the script he had crafted during their long silence._

_“I’m so sorry…” Gregory’s voice broke then, jolting Mycroft. This was not one of the anticipated reactions, as it appeared that he had begun to sob. There was no protocol for this in place, no reserve of experience or research that Mycroft could fall back on. The emotional floodgates appeared to have opened and Gregory had been swept away, now chanting his apology like a mantra between gasping breaths._

_“Hey hey hey, come here, none of that.” And just like that, Mycroft was transported back to the only applicable moment in his life for this situation: crouched down, holding a young and emotionally distraught Sherlock in his arms, cooing soothing words into his hair and stroking his unruly curls after Redbeard had been brought to the vet for the last time. He had sobbed so heartbreakingly long, that when it had finally abated, Mycroft had said the only thing that made sense to him at the time: ‘Caring is not an advantage.’ And it was just as true now as it was then, but for some reason he couldn’t say it to the man before him._

_Instead, he turned Gregory away from the mess he had made, placing the brick wall at his back for support and crouching them down together. Mycroft’s hands gripped reassuringly on either side of his neck where it met shoulders. Gregory’s head was bowed almost between his knees now and Mycroft leaned forward, moving one hand to the back of Gregory’s head and leaning his forehead against his crown._

_“It’s OK,” he cooed softly over the constant flow of Gregory’s now whispered mea culpa, “Please, Gregory, do not apologize. You have never been anything but good to my brother. More than he deserved, more times than not, certainly. This is my burden to bear, not yours. Please. It pains me to see you this way.”_

_And it was true; his heart ached seeing how tortured Gregory was by Sherlock’s apparent suicide. He wanted so badly in that moment to share the secret of his brothers escape from death, knowing he could end this torture with just two simple words: he’s alive._

_But, of course, that was a ridiculous fantasy to even entertain, so Mycroft simply held him through the pain until there were no more tears left and Gregory’s breathing had steadied. Mycroft had his car pull around to meet them, gently shifting Gregory’s weight until they both stood, then supporting him to the street and into the car._

_The ride to Gregory’s apartment was made in silence, though this was very different from the silence that had loomed over them like a specter on the way to the pub. Mycroft had a hand securely wrapped around Gregory’s forearm in continued reassurance, while Gregory gripped Mycroft’s knee with that hand as though he would fall should he let go._

_The car pulled to a stop outside Gregory’s building and both men got out, Mycroft steadying him up to the door._

_“I need a fag before I go in,” Gregory mumbled, searching his pockets for the pack of cigarettes he’d forgotten he no longer carried._

_Mycroft produced a fresh pack of Gregory’s old brand and passed it over without comment._

_“Ta.” Gregory pulled out two, handed one back to Mycroft, and accepted the light Mycroft offered. He took a long drag and then slumped down to sit on the top stair, still too unsteady on his feet._

_After a moment’s hesitation Mycroft joined him, figuring his trousers were almost certainly beyond saving at this point. Both men coughed, no longer accustomed to the smoke after going so long without. They both chuckled wryly at the absurdity of it all, but sobered quickly._

_“’m not sure I know how to live in a world without Sherlock Holmes anymore,” Gregory admitted, studying his cigarette intently._

_“We’ll make do,” Mycroft took another drag and released it to the night sky, surprised to see stars peaking through the clouds, a rare sight this far into the city. He felt Gregory’s weight shift, settling against his arm. It was just enough that it could be mistaken as a need for physical support, but the emotional weight was what he was obviously struggling to bear._

_And there they sat, in the cold hours of the morning, cigarettes and pretense forgotten._

_Out of the corner of his eye Mycroft could see Gregory’s gaze slowly move to study Mycroft’s face. He did not have the piercing scrutiny of a Holmes, but he was a detective, and the night had slowly sobered him to where questions began filtering up to the surface again._

_Before Mycroft could extricate himself graciously, Gregory voiced the question that had been preying on him and that he was unable to answer with observation alone._

_“Why are you here?”_

_“I believe you’ll find that I answered that question already earlier this evening, Inspector.” Mycroft shifted, breaking their connection and creating space between them again in preparation for his exit._

_“No.”_

_Mycroft furrowed his brow, a slight frown pulling at his lips._

_“It is late, Inspector.” Mycroft moved to stand, but found a firm hand on his shoulder preventing it._

_“Tell me.”_

_Perhaps it was the drink, of which he had partaken more than he had planned, or the stress of orchestrating his brother’s ‘death’ on such short notice, but the truth as it were came tumbling out._

_“Because today my brother is dead, in no small part because of me, and I felt the need to be in the proximity of the man that had saved him so many times where I could not.” Mycroft swallowed hard to steel himself for what had to come next. He stood, extending his hand. “Thank you for your service to our family.”_

_The finality of the gesture was not lost on the Inspector, and he looked reticently at the hand he was being offered._

_“Does this mean that I am relieved…?” He didn’t rise or offer his hand. Mycroft pulled a crisp, gold embossed business card from his jacket pocket and placed it into his hand instead._

_“Should you ever need anything...” and with that Mycroft turned, noting that the Inspector’s protective detail was in place before moving purposely to his waiting vehicle._

_It wasn’t until he was behind the relative safety of the tinted glass that he dared to look back. Gregory was still seated on the stoop clutching the card, but his eyes had followed Mycroft’s retreat and now appeared to be looking right at him._

_In those moments before the car began the journey home, Mycroft found himself wishing that Gregory was, in fact, the friend he had assumed him to be. He had never found time to wish for such trivial things, occupying his limited free time with devising new ways to protect his reckless brother from himself. Although that job was far from over now, whether the world knew it or not, he was tempted to spare the time for this man. Perhaps, if Gregory got to know him as well as he knew Gregory…_

_The car pulled away and the spell was broken. Mycroft took out his mobile and dialed Anthea for a briefing on the two other new security details and the status of their targets, glad again to have a brilliant and competent PA that slept as infrequently as he did._

______________________

The targets were safe. As morning turned to afternoon, it appeared Project Lazarus was continuing on course as smoothly as could be expected, despite the dull throb in the back of his skull reminding him of his chosen role in the aftermath.

John had refused to return to 221B, but was finally persuaded by his ex-girlfriend and boss, Sarah, to return with her to her flat and make use of her Lilo again. As a doctor, she would be able to care for him, at least for a time. Keeping John stable and alive until Sherlock’s return was going to be the most difficult part of this ordeal by far, though he had an ex-agent in mind for the task that would potentially do nicely, if he could convince her that this was not yet another attempt at trapping her for extradition.

Mrs. Hudson was tough, but sentimental. He was confident that, as long as he did not come to collect Sherlock’s things, 221B would remain open and untouched. He would arrange that Mrs. Hudson’s financial needs were seen to in other ways to ensure this decision would not become a burden to her. Once her would-be assassin’s usefulness expired, which according to Sherlock would be soon, he would recall her protective detail, but not before.

Which left Lestrade. His report this morning showed he had remained on that stair for quite a long time after Mycroft’s departure before finally retreating to the warmth and relative safety of his flat. As expected, he had been informed that morning of his suspension pending investigation of all cases where he had involved Sherlock, or Sherlock had involved himself. He had returned home and had not left. The internal surveillance Mycroft’s people had installed during his absence showed he was not a danger to himself at the moment, though the carton of cigarettes he had picked up on the way home spoke volumes on his current outlook on life.

But Mycroft was far more distracted by the fact that Gregory had not only kept his personal number, but had already entered it into his phone and used it. It had revived the hope he’d thought DOA last night, much to his chagrin. It was frightening how much he found he wanted this, whatever it was between them, to become part of his life. He realized he would take anything Gregory would give him as the gift it truly was, as nauseated as the sentiment behind that statement made him.

With resigned purpose, Mycroft pulled the phone from his pocket. His heart raced as he entered his response.

MH: _Anytime._

Mycroft stared at the word on his screen and all of the meaning it held, thumb hovering over the send button. It was likely that nothing would come of it. Almost certainly nothing to match the driving physical need he felt thrumming through his veins, the itching under his skin to be close enough to touch Gregory again.

But Mycroft was accustomed to self-denial, and he would continue to practice it religiously. These feelings would dull with time, he was certain, and he would be allowed to return to his natural state of cold repose, ever the detached observer of a world of passions.

As the car pulled into its customary spot at Buckingham Palace, Mycroft deleted his response, leaving Gregory’s message unanswered. It was better this way, he told himself. He exited the vehicle and faced the man there to meet him.

“Harry, good to see you,” Mycroft took the hand of his longtime acquaintance and liaison to the crown.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Harry offered, and Mycroft nodded his thanks for the courtesy as they continued inside to begin work on the newest crisis at hand. The world continued moving forward and so would he.

Mycroft Holmes stepped over the palace threshold as The British Government once again, _The Text_ already mentally filed away under the header ‘frivolous,’ to be ignored and, preferably, forgotten in time.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic and although I love Mystrade I just couldn't make this one happy or even hopeful. I'm sorry.
> 
> I'm considering writing within this timeline from the perspectives of the other characters involved (both on and off screen). It's such an tumultuous and emotional 24 hours that is never captured on screen, so I feel compelled to rummage around in these characters' heads and share what I find. 
> 
> I will add them as independent stories in the newly created "After the fall" series (not as chapters to this story). Hopefully there's interest...? *hint*
> 
> Clarifications:  
> \- I used "Anthea" as Mycroft's PA's name, despite the fact that this is not her real name. This was done after long internal debate, as most readers will know her by this name rather than "Andrea" as the original script shows her real name to be... should Sherlock seasons 4 or 5 reveal her name on screen this will be edited to reflect that.  
> \- The "Harry" that meets Mycroft at the end of this story is the man Sherlock, John, and Mycroft have tea with at Buckingham Palace in "A Scandal in Belgravia."


End file.
